


Synthetic IX: SALT

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, M/M, Past Abuse, Plot, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: Daddy. And things fall apart. SO much angst... poor boys.





	

Synthetic IX: Salt  
Kitty Fisher

 

Lying on yet another strange bed, Dean stares at the ceiling. He watches the headlights of passing cars trail bars of light over nicotine-stained paint and, like a boy poking an anthill with a stick, tries to remember something real from the deep waters of his past.

There are stretches of childhood he can scarcely recall, at least not in any detail. All the traveling has blurred into one long succession of sleeping in strangers’ houses, or in cheap motels where the walls were hung with the same paintings and the same sticky carpet was spread on the floor. Summers were spent on the move, winters in school. Every year a different one – each with the same deal going down, the same tests for the new kids, both in and out of the classroom. Diagnosed dyslexic three times and ADD more than that - by the time he was twelve he’d fought more playground battles than he had demons.

Ritalin had been the schools’ cure-all. His dad had never approved of the drug, but Dean hadn’t minded. The world through Ritalin-diffused eyes was a gentler place – even if it had lopped the last few inches off his height.

But, with or without it, school had sucked. At sixteen, he’d walked away from the last class with relief. Sam had been the one with the brains. He still was. Dean had known for a long time that the reasons for his own existence were quite different from Sam’s - their dad had never once punished Dean for getting a bad report from school.

Not that Sam had ever got bad reports. Everyone loved Sammy - even the teachers whose eyes spoke so clearly of their disdain for the Winchesters and their skewed values - had ruffled Sammy’s hair (after making sure both boys were nit free) and made sure he got extra coaching after school hours. 

As a family they hadn’t done Christmas – though Dean always made sure Sammy had something to unwrap. Their Dad had often been away. The season of goodwill was a busy time, with demons, overfed on misery and disillusion, just a little bit slower than they were the rest of the year. But which Christmas was spent where? Dean has no idea. He has no real timeline of his past. Was he ten or twelve when they’d stayed at the house with the poltergeist? He knew it couldn’t have been when he was eleven, because that Christmas was the one he did recall – the only one during his childhood that he’d spent away from Sammy. The one he’d returned from so freaked out that his dad had been purple-faced with fury, whisky-fumes like fire on his breath as he’d shaken Dean, staring wildly into his eyes before leaving them for hours, only to return with both fists bloodied at the knuckles. Dean had eaten candy every day of the week he’d spent in bed. Yeah, it had almost been worth it.

Dean can still taste the sweetness. There’s a picture in his head of himself in bed: aching, chocolate sticky in his mouth, a silver-foil wrapper shiny and smooth until, with a soft metallic whisper, it crumples in his fingers, only for him to smooth it flat again. And again. His dad in the doorway, staring. The image is strong, a slice of his life hardened into a snapshot. One instant of clear memory amidst all the blurring. Not that it’s ever mattered before. Hell, most of the time he’d rather not think about last week let alone back to when he was ten, or eight, or four years old. Back to where the darkest memories lurk.

Even now, he’s only thinking back because of Sam. Because Sam deserves someone with a past that’s more than fragments and scraps. Someone who doesn’t hide.

Sighing, he turns his head, casts his gaze down the long arcing line of skin and bedclothes that’s his brother. Sam, asleep, curled away from him. Dean is a long way from sleep, but he’s resting. The room is clean, the bed’s not bad and Sam’s there, just within reach. Strange, after all the years of never actually liking to sleep with anyone after a fuck, he’s already used to Sam. Maybe it’s a leftover from when they were kids and small enough to both to fit in a single bed, holding each other through the nights their father was away. Now? Dean can’t imagine not having Sam close. Can’t imagine being alone again, and the need he feels in himself is scary, for he knows he wants Sam the way a starving man craves food: like something all-consuming.

He’ll do anything to keep this. Even though it’s all madness. But his life has never been sane, and what’s a little more craziness added to the mix? Dean twists an ironic grin up towards the inkblot-shaped water stains that dot the ceiling, letting his eyes trace over the spreading outlines. Idly, he wonders whether, if he stared hard enough, he would see shapes, like dragons and unicorns. All the stuff that Sam probably sees in the folds of his towel, let alone the carefully constructed shapes of a psychiatric test.

Sucking in a deep breath, he holds it in his lungs. Holds it until the darkness begins to sparkle with dancing pinpricks of light - and only then lets the breath go. Slowly, feeling the air flow past his lips.

He’s glad Sam never knew what was going on when they were growing up. It had been right to keep everything hidden, which Dean had, even before he really understood quite _why_. That first night, the one when he’d taken the bottle from his father’s fingers and held him while he sobbed, and how the sobs had turned into something else, until he was on the floor, face pressed into the carpet, whisky-sour tears soaking his neck, even then he’d kept silent and _prayed_ that Sam wouldn’t wake up. Christ, he’d been confused – and scared. But his dad had been so sweet and gentle, afterwards. And the next time, when his father had been sad and lonely, it had been easier, and he’d felt so good, being so useful. He’d never shirked away from doing what had to be done, even going quietly to the others when he was told to. Not that it had happened that often, not when he was a real young kid. There had only been one time he’d been really unhappy. There had been nothing to like about the priest. Not one bit of that summer had been good. Summer? Hell, he’d been paler at the end than at the beginning - explaining that away to Sammy as a trip up north, as if they even had summer camps in Alaska - after months hidden away in the priest’s basement, like a toy stuffed in a box.

He’d never liked being bored. Funnily enough, the fucking had been nothing, but the hours spent on his knees had put him off prayer for life.

Beside him, Sam stirs, and the bed shifts as he turns to look across at Dean. “You’re awake.”

“Guess so.”

“Come here.”

Dean pushes the sheets and blanket aside, and slides himself nearer, pulled in close as one of Sam’s arms curls under his neck, the other wrapping over his ribs, holding him gently. His brother smells of shampoo, clean and fresh, and Dean feels his body relax as Sam’s hand smoothes over his side.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Sam’s half-asleep, his breath warm as he presses his mouth to Dean’s forehead. “Didn’t. Still asleep.”

“Mmm…” Dean smiles as one of Sam’s thighs pushes up, and he lets it nudge between his knees before shifting to drape his own leg around Sam’s, locking them limb to limb. He feels the moment when Sam actually falls back into sleep. The change of weight, of awareness. Somehow the buzz of his own thoughts fades. Quite content, he lies still, feeling the shape they make, the two of them, with one of Sam’s long feet pressed to one of his own, the muscles that shape Sam’s body and the slight, soft scratch of hair where thigh lies along thigh. He yawns. Closes his eyes.

And wakes with Sam thrashing in his arms.

The heel of one hand clips Dean’s jaw and he grunts, seeing stars and tasting blood from his bitten tongue. His fingers reach frantically for Sam, trying to somehow push or pull him into wakefulness. “Hey!”

A sound, wet and dark with despair, is pulled from Sam’s throat. His head drops back and Dean can see there are tears leaking from his tightly closed eyes.

Empathic pain rips at Dean’s gut. “Sam, you’re dreaming! Sam!”

Suddenly, Sam’s eyes shoot open, the pupils blown. He’s staring into nothing, focused somewhere past Dean, somewhere Dean can never go. Then the long body shudders, and Dean holds more tightly, his hands around one wrist, one shoulder, as Sam just folds, the awful tension ripped away, leaving him panting, shivering in Dean’s arms.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Yeah. ‘m fine. Sorry.” There’s sweat on Sam’s face, slicking across his skin, trickling down from where his hair is plastered damply to his temples. “Fuck, I’m sorry, man.”

“Hey! You’re the one with the nightmare.”

“Yeah.” Sam eases away and flops onto his back, one unsteady hand wiping over his face. 

Propped on one elbow, Dean looks at him, frowning. “Give - what was it?”

Shaking his head, Sam only lies there, breathing, eyes hidden by a forearm, hand curled into a fist. After a moment the wide mouth thins and Sam shakes his head, only the once, the movement no more than a slight jerk of muscle that knots the tendons in his neck. For Dean, watching Sam try and find words is like standing on the edge of a precipice. One high and cold and with no sight of how far away the ground might be. It’s very cold. And, as the silence draws out, the knot of tension in Dean’s stomach pulls in and down, sucking air from the room and hazing the edges of his vision. He waits, until Sam finally lets his arm fall back onto the pillow.

His eyes stay shut.

“Dean? You…when you were a kid, were you ever –” Sam searches for a word, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip, until he gives a sharp bite down, and his lip, swollen and red, is released. “Okay. No way to dodge around this one I guess...” He shakes his head, almost in disbelief, and there’s a thread of near-hysterical laughter in his voice. “Don’t get pissed, but – you ever get messed with by a priest?” 

The skin on Dean’s neck prickles sharply with unease. “Is that was you were dreaming about?”

“Yeah.” Sam gives an awkward, half-shrug. “So, were you?”

Dean nods. “I guess.”

“Oh, hell –” Breaking off, Sam swallows miserably. “Dean, you were so fucking young!”

“You _saw_ me? _Christ_! Fuck. How, since when –”

“I don’t know!” Sam interrupts. He opens his eyes, and Dean looks into them, reading empathy and revulsion, pain like fire glowing bright and vivid. Sam swallows, this throat shifting like it’s trying to dislodge a knot. “But, yeah – you, with a guy in a collar and robes.”

Dean can almost see Sam’s skin crawl, and all he can think is _shit_. “No. It’s crazy, you can’t have.”

“I saw the things he made you do, Dean! I saw that room, and you –”

“Sam, just don’t! You can’t have seen. Yeah, I was with a priest for a while and he was on my mind just now – but…” Taking a deep breath, Dean shrugs. He could be freaked, but instead he’s only thinking that he doesn’t want Sam to know. Wants him clean. But there’s no protection against dreams, not really. All the mystic, psychic stuff? Man, it really was a head-fuck. “Sam, as if our lives aren’t messed up enough, now you have to sneak into the shittiest places from my past.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“Come on. What am I supposed to do? Have hysterics?”

“No.” Sam sits up, pressing the heels of both hands against his eyes, hunching forward miserably. When he speaks his voice is muffled. “I didn’t mean to pry. I wouldn’t…”

“It’s okay…” Dean stares upwards, seeing nothing but a small room with a huge crucifix on one wall. “We might be leaping to Winchester levels of assumption here. It might be nothing but coincidence. Right. So how old was the priest?”

Shaking his head, Sam hesitates, and then lets his hands fall away as he twists to look back at Dean. “Thirty, maybe. Blond, slim.” Quite calm, Sam’s face is pale in the charcoal-shadowed light that spills in from the window. He looks unwell, the bones of his face stark under stretched skin, and Dean hates it, hates this moment, this pain he never meant to cause. But Sam isn’t finished. He makes a soft sound of disbelief, and Dean can see the muscles in his arm quivering as he leans, one hand spread flat on the bed, back towards his brother. “He tied you - wrapped rosaries around your wrists and fucked you.”

Yeah, he had. Dean flashes back to the taste of carved wood, thick with his own blood, and jerks away from the memory, fast, hating the way it bites into the present. “Sam, it wasn’t –”

“Don’t try and tell me it was nothing!”

“Okay.” Dean nods, his lips twisting bitterly. “Sam, you ever dream stuff like this before?”

“About you? Not like this…” Sam lies down again, on his side, facing Dean. Night is fading into day, the room shifting from shades of gray into muted colors. Dean can see the dark shadows that curve up through pinched skin under Sam’s eyes, and there’s a pallor under Sam’s tan, one he’s pretty sure matches his own.

Shifting one hand to where Sam’s fingers are rubbing back and forth on the sheet, he holds them, curling his hand around them, sighing as they turn, linking them in a single tight clasp.

“How could you stand it?” Sam sounds so lost. So small.

Dean smiles, maybe, his lips forming the right shape, even if the intent is lacking. “He could give Dad information. A lot if it. Books, contacts, knowledge. It was all important shit, not just the scraps Dad had been gleaning as he went along. Father David Howe. Man, he was mean – liked his boys pious. I prayed so much that summer, my knees had calluses.”

“You weren’t praying in my dream!”

“Nightmare, Sam. It was a nightmare. And probably a good deal worse than the real thing.” Right. “Honest.”

Suddenly, Sam’s leaning over him, half climbing on Dean’s body, his face very close, green eyes bright with intensity as he presses Dean into the bed. “You were a child and he fucked you. You were a child and he made you act out being a fucking _sacrifice_!”

Making a face, Dean nods, feeling himself squirming. “Yeah, well…” Sam stops the embarrassed words with a kiss, one that tastes of salt and sadness.

Dean shudders a sigh into Sam’s mouth, and wishes he’d never lain in the dark remembering. The kiss though, is sweet, and Sam’s tongue is delicate as it traces patterns on his lips, on the roof of his mouth. Sweet and so very controlled – because he can feel the wire-tight tautness of Sam’s body, the angry clutch of his fingers.

The anger isn’t directed at Dean. Dean knows this. Knows that when Sam pushes them groin to groin, the weight of his body covering Dean, wrapping him tight, that it’s nothing but Sam’s need to give and receive comfort. Anyway, Dean’s already hard and he gasps when Sam’s cock scrapes up his shaft. Hands clutching at Sam’s broad back, he feels the clench and bunch of muscles as Sam fights to keep control, of this, of himself, to keep it slow. To keep this something other than whatever it has been before.

Like a marker.

Like this is new and different and them. Just them. Sam and Dean, wrapped in each other, denying the past and giving the future a collective finger.

Dean pulls Sam closer, because yeah, this he understands, and wants, and the hunger is already clawing at him, the need that makes Sam the sweetest thing he’s ever had or known.

There’s sweat in the small of Sam’s back, and Dean traces his fingertips through it, running his hands down to cup Sam’s ass, holding there, bringing them closer as Sam works his hips, and the kiss deepens into something avaricious. Desperation in every lick and bite, the two of them gasping, swallowing breath of their own, of each other’s as Dean tries to hump upwards, only to have Sam press him down, hands cupping Dean’s head as he groans and his body shakes, whimpers seeping up from Dean’s throat, salt stinging the ragged edge of his bitten tongue as Sam comes, head snapping back, eyes squeezed shut, his kiss-bruised mouth wide as he chokes, the sound lost in Dean’s own gasp as, almost like an afterthought, he shudders into orgasm, and liquid spreads between them, plastering them stomach to stomach.

Dean doesn’t let go. Panting, Sam falls forward, face tucked into Dean’s neck, his weight an anchor. With his eyes closed, Dean can only see darkness, but he can feel his brother, everything about him, in the stretch of muscle under his hands and the soft gusting of breath as it shivers over his shoulder.

He doesn’t open his eyes, and he whispers as if he might be overheard. “Sam, I’m sorry.”

“Shhh.” Sam shifts his body slightly, pressing his lips to Dean’s neck, whispering in turn, “It’s okay.”

“I can’t change what happened.”

“No.” Another shift and Sam eases to one side, sliding off Dean’s body, drying spunk flaking up between them. “Seeing it was… tough.”

“It was stupid shit. Done. Gone.”

“Yeah.”

Still wrapped together, they lie still. Dean knows that Sam hasn’t let it go. But at least he’s not actually asking more questions.

“We should get up.” Sighing, Dean slides his hand up Sam’s back, and his fingertips trace the snaking length of spine, feeling the curve of each bone where it lies under muscle.

“Mmm.” Sam nods, but hardly moves. “It’s early yet.”

“Right – except we’re meeting Dad at ten. Remember?”

“No, it just slipped my mind.” He snorts in derision. “As if.”

Dean sighs, tries to pretend his stomach isn’t tying itself into a pretzel. “And you know? Unless we want him to smell us a mile away – we seriously need to get in the shower.”

Lifting his head, nose twitching, Sam sniffs loudly. “You think? Mmm, smells like perfume to me.”

Which at least makes Dean laugh, because, hell yeah, sex and sweat - _Sam’s_ sweat and sex? It’s not exactly something he hates. But… “Come on.”

Sam moves, sliding over and up to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling on yesterday’s shirt and shorts. Dean grins appreciatively when he stands to pull them into place, and Sam makes a face at him. Ignoring the heap of his own clothes, Dean leaps off the bed and darts into the bathroom, grinning as he slams the door on Sam’s outraged howl.

He’s drying off when he hears a loud knock from outside. Frowning, he moves to the bathroom door, cracks it open and takes the pistol Sam passes him. Hidden, he watches Sam, silent and fast, go to lean on the wall by the door, before he calls out, “Who is it?”

“Sam, let me in.”

Dad.

They look at each other, and Dean, still dripping, scrambles for some clothes, pulling on ragged jeans and a faded T-shirt just as Sam unlocks the door.

:::

Their father walks in and looks them both up and down. Dean feels his back straighten and he hates the instant, unthinking reaction, though after so long, he thinks it’s something his body will do even when he’s ninety. If he gets to ninety, of course.

“Boys.”

They look at him, both of them, wrong-footed and guilty before anything has even been said. Sam manages to react first. “We were coming to meet you later.”

“Plans have changed.”

Dean snatches a look at Sam, who’s frowning, looking at their father like he’s a stranger. Which, to Sam, he probably is now. John’s frowning too, which is just great, and Dean is wary of the anger that lies under the surface, under the raggedness, of skin and clothes and demeanor, and he knows that his father’s precariously on the edge, that somehow things aren’t good. 

Not that they’re going to get any better – and he doesn’t need any of Sam’s skills to see that in the future.

The door closes with a sharp slam; Dean controls his flinch and keeps his eyes steady as John walks towards him. For the briefest of moments, it’s just his dad, smelling of oil and sweat and clothes that haven’t been washed often enough, all the things that wrap together, like memory in a single inhaled breath. The hug, though: it’s stiff and forced. Dean meets Sam’s eyes over the broad shoulder – and the jolt of pain he sees in Sam’s gaze burns right down to his toes.

A big hand claps him on the shoulder, but he can’t feel anything real in the affection, and Dean moves out of the embrace, stepping back, his fingers twitching as two sets of eyes bore into him.

His father lifts his chin, eyes narrowing speculatively. But he doesn’t ask any questions, just gives an order. “Dean, get your things.”

Shaking his head, Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Sam’s voice is the one that makes John turn. “He’s not going anywhere. Not unless you tell us what you want from him.”

John looks at his younger son. “Sam.” He nods, once. “What’s all this?”

“It’s a question, Dad. One of those things you don’t like answering.”

Dean moves closer to Sam, every muscle ready to step in should the simmering anger he can feel in his dad win over the outward calm. Not that Sam’s exactly cool right now, either. “Dad, just tell us.”

“Dean, shut up – your brother seems to have ideas above his station.”

“What station is that, Dad?” Sam’s almost spitting as he speaks. “The one where I’m kept in the dark? The one where I’m the idiot who only exists to be protected, at any cost? That station?”

John’s face hardens, every year of his life clear to see in the lines that web from his eyes and run deep between his brows. Very slowly, as if assessing something, he looks from one son to the other. He nods and stares hard at Dean. “I reckon someone’s been telling tales.” 

“What?” In three paces Sam is at John’s side, one hand gripped tight onto his jacket. “You think I still shouldn’t know? I’m grown up now, Dad. Big enough to know the facts of life. All of them.”

The familiar, craggy face is coated over with exhaustion. John looks first at the hand, then up into Sam’s face. “Is that so?” He nods. “Then you’ll understand I need Dean’s…special talents.”

Sam’s lip curls bitterly. “Oh, nice euphemism, Dad. Why not just call yourself his pimp and be done –”

John lashes out, the back of his hand catching Sam hard across the cheek. Dean’s moving, but he’s a second too late and they’re scuffling, all three of them fighting clumsily, stupidly, with Dean trying to put himself between the other two, trying ineffectually to stop the madness, braced on wide-spread legs as he pushes them apart, a hand on each struggling chest. An elbow slams into his side, and he puts a bit more muscle into holding his father while trying to catch Sam’s wildly furious gaze as long arms grapple past him, reaching for John.

“Stop it!”

He grunts, earns another bruise, mouths obscenities under his breath and almost falls as Sam just stops fighting and steps back.

For a moment longer, Dean holds onto his father. Then he lets go and, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, goes to Sam’s side.

There’s a moment when John just stands there, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. Then, quite visibly, realization hits. “You little bastards…”

“Chips off the old block, right, Dad?” Sam, all cocky challenge, just lifts his chin and gives back as much scorn as he gets.

John ignores him. He turns to Dean, skin flushing under the layer of stubble. “So, you’re warming your brother’s bed now. Congratulations.”

“Dad…”

“Dean, shut your mouth. You seduced Sam –”

“He didn’t.”

Staring into his father’s eyes, Dean flinches at the instant, angry response to Sam’s retort. John turns to Sam and snarls, “He didn’t what?”

“Seduce me. I seduced him. Yeah. Like father, like son - isn’t that a joke? Except, did you ever think twice about what you did to him? Well I did. I thought about it, over and over again, until one day I just knew it was the right thing to do.” Sam takes a breath. “Hell, the fact that I can say that and mean it? I guess the Winchester family really is one huge fuck-up. Thanks for that, _Dad_.”

John lowers his head, hesitates, and then straightens; his eyes flash first to Dean, and then stare directly at Sam. “Back then?” His voice is gruff, thick with some unwelcome emotion. “I didn’t think. But I didn’t mean for it to happen either.”

“Oh, is that an _apology_? Is that meant to make it all better? Because I don’t think so!”

“Sam…” Dean shakes his head. “Please, leave it.”

“No. Dean, you know…in some really screwed-up way I can understand him having sex with you – even though I have to work real hard to get even close to that understanding, what with all the stuff about you being his son and still a kid and how he twisted you into being something he wanted, like some goddamned toy. But the rest? That he saw you as nothing but a tool? Man… Dean, it cuts me up. Cuts me into pieces every time I think about it.”

Dean shivers and, closing his hands over his arms, he rubs at skin suddenly prickling with goosebumps. He’d never thought about it like that. Was that all he’d been, a tool? Useful as a lock-pick, only not as easy to carry around? All the times he’d gone with strange men, he’d thought of himself as a man. Thought himself useful, equal, doing a job he was suited for and that only he could do. Now he’s not so sure…

“Dean?”

He looks at his father. All the built-in impulses - the training - make him want to respond to that tone by kneeling and crawling for forgiveness. There’s an actual pain in his knees, he’s got them locked so tight just to keep himself upright. But he shakes his head. “No.”

“What?”

“No.” He bites his lip, forcing himself to remain silent, not to say _sir_ or to come to attention. Not to want the things his father gave him. “Dad, no more.” Dean’s voice is hoarse, soft, but he says the words, and knows he doesn’t want them unsaid. Not any more.

“You never complained.”

“That’s an excuse?” Sam interrupts bitingly, and John glances at him.

“Yeah.” There’s so much arrogance in John’s tone. So much assurance. “He was up for it. Always – like a good son.”

“He was a _child_!”

“And we were fighting a goddamn war, Sam!” Turning slightly, John faces Sam, and Dean feels air rush into his lungs as his father’s gaze releases him. “A war. Remember? Mom, Jess? Things had to get done. Dean is a soldier – one who has never shirked his duty.”

“Unlike me. Sure, I know, I’m the black sheep of the family and I always said duty sucks. But how can you stand there and tell me that it was his _duty_ to get fucked – by you or anyone!” Dean winces, but he can only see the way Sam is burning up with this intensity, with anger and loathing. Sam makes a gesture with one hand, as if he’s knocking something away, and his nostrils flare as he sucks in a breath. “And Dad? Don’t ever bring Mom or Jess into this. Not ever.”

John nods curtly. “Like I said, I didn’t plan any of it – but it happened and, like so much else, it just became part of the war. Dean paid for a lot of things, some of them for you.”

“Oh, don’t play that card, Dad! Most fathers don’t pimp out one of their kids, however much they might need money or favors, or whatever you got in exchange for him. Do they?”

There’s a shrug, a twist of John’s lips that’s all about not admitting when he’s wrong. But his voice, finally, is defensive. “Maybe they don’t have demons to fight.”

“Yeah, well, maybe one of the demons in the Winchester family is you. So, thanks for that, Dad, but you know what? Dean and me, we’re done with it. It ends, here.”

Dean feels like his vocal cords have been cut. There are things he’s sure he should be saying, but there’s nothing he can shape into words. His throat feels full, like it’s stuffed with wool, and he pushes a hand through his hair, turning away to sit on the bed, to stare down at his bare feet, hands clasped loosely in front of him. On the edge of his vision he can see his father and Sam, squared off like fighters in a ring. But, his father’s right, of course. He had gone willingly. Pretty much every time. And morality? The issues of right and wrong? They were easy to consider in hindsight. At the time? Well, he’d been obedient, and that was his job. Obedience, compliance and a really, really nifty talent for cock-sucking.

After a moment, he realizes the other two are silent and, suddenly self-conscious, he looks up. To find two pairs of eyes staring at him.

“What?” Dean straightens warily, hands sliding up his thighs as his spine locks into place.

“Dad’s going.”

“Dean, come with me.”

Sam shakes his head in exasperation. “Dad, leave it – he’s not coming with you!”

“Let him decide.”

Sam snorts in derision. “Right. You gonna get the thumbscrews out? Maybe a whip? Or are you just gonna play on his guilt? Fuck, Dad, you think in all this time you’ve ever really given him a _choice_?”

Which earns him a look from John’s dark, bloodshot eyes. Dean looks up at them, wondering idly how long they’ve been arguing. About him. Which is so weird. At least they’re not fighting. Not with fists, anyway. 

“Who is it?” Dean is almost surprised himself, when he speaks. More surprised when they both look at him, which means he actually said that out loud. He looks at his father. “The guy you want me to see, who is it?”

“Dean, no – you can’t even be thinking about it!”

“Depends.” He keeps his focus on his father’s face, and sees the slight shift of muscle when some of the desperate tension eases. “What’ll he do if you don’t deliver?”

Broad shoulders shrug, dismissively. “Maybe nothing.”

“What’s he given you?”

“A lead to the demon.” And in John’s voice, Dean can hear rabid hunger. The obsession that’s taken than all down this road that they’re traveling. “You want to get the bastard, Sam? Avenge Jess, your mother?”

“Dad, you know I do.” Sam’s shaking his head, his eyes confused, and utterly miserable.

“Then I need Dean.”

“For God’s sake, can’t you bargain with something else?”

“No.” Shoving his hands into his pockets, John Winchester looks at the floor, then, obliquely, at Dean. “Not when I’ve promised. My word, Sam. You know there’s not much I’ve got left, but my word still stands as something honorable. If the people I work with - who I rely on - don’t trust me? I may as well be dead.”

“Shit.”

Gesturing hopelessly, Dean opens his hands, and then wraps them back around his arms. “Just for the record? I really don’t want to do this. There’s nothing in me that’s saying, ‘Hey, another round of fun and frolics with some jacked-up, weirded-out demon hunter!’. Do you get that? Dad, if I go along with this, _if_ I go to whoever it is you’re in debt to, then it’s just to save your ass. Understand? Because, if you ever, _ever_ , offer me up in trade again, I’ll let you sink. Your word will be shit and whatever fucking code of honor you think made all this all right? It’ll be in shreds - and your friends and fellow hunters will never see the name John Winchester and think _honorable_ ever again.” He nods emphatically. “So, Dad. You up for that? If it’s a one shot deal, I’ll do it. But only if Sam says I can.”

“Dean!”

“Yeah, I know.” Forlornly, he looks at Sam. “It’s the fuzzy end of the fucking lollipop. If you say no? I won’t go. Whatever it means, to him, or for him, it’s not worth hurting you. Or us. Me? I’ve done shit like this so often that one last session won’t make any difference. See, I’ll be okay. But I can’t choose. Just can’t. I’m sorry…”

Sam looks a little like he’s going to throw up. Dean stares at him impassively. He’s trying not to signal either way. Sure, he can be his daddy’s good soldier one last time – and if it’s a way to get the demon, well, that’ll settle Sam too. Put some closure on the past and open up the future. But, under the calm, there’s something else, something perilously close to fear. Fear that he’s doing this for all the wrong reasons. What if he really can’t say no to his father, because obedience is so ingrained, because it’s easier than not going, not obeying, not being the child, the man, the soldier that he’s always been?

And under all that lies the single, colorless thought of what if he goes - if Sam says, sure, go, do it - and when he comes back, Sam looks at him differently.

What then?

“Sam…”

“God, I don’t know!”

Dean nods. He gets that. The conflicting impulses in his own brain are making him almost serene, as if they cancel each other out. But there’s one thing he’s not sure that Sam understands, so he stands up, moves across the carpet, feeling nylon tufts brush up between his toes as he walks. Going to stand by Sam, he reaches up and cups the beautiful, anxious face in his palms, letting his fingers push under the ragged strands of dark hair, so they fall softly over his skin. There’s an unease in him, as if he’s walking a knife edge, the blade sharp under him, cutting his skin, regardless of which way he turns. But Sam is the reason for everything, the answer to every question. Just like he’s always been. There’s been nothing else that’s mattered to Dean for a long time. Not even Sam going to college or finding Jess changed that. And if Sam had married Jess, then that wouldn’t have mattered either, for this thing, this _love_ , simply was and simply is. As for the strangeness of realizing such a thing here and now? Well, maybe it’s a reward. A blessing. And even if it’s a curse, he’s not sure he cares.

“Sam.” Dean feels the angular bones shift as Sam clenches his jaw. “They can’t touch me. Not _me_. Understand?”

Sam starts to shake his head, and then stops. His eyes close, while his face shivers through pain and into calm. “Yeah. And Dean, I know that if anything happened to Dad, because you didn’t go? Man, I can’t imagine what you’d do.”

“Me neither.”

“Boys…”

They both turn, and Dean’s hand drops, only to be caught and held by Sam’s. Together they look at their father, and the electricity in the air is so sharp that Dean can almost smell ozone, almost feel the hairs on his arms swaying, charged with static.

Staring, his face expressionless, hard as stone, John looks from one to the other. “I wouldn’t ask unless I had to.”

“Dad, you didn’t ask at all – you ordered.”

He nods. “I did. And right now I’d order you two to stop behaving like a couple of fool teenagers. Christ, you’ll be talking about love next! Dean, you’re nothing but a pussy-hound, always sniffing after the next piece of skirt, and Sam?” The dark eyes shift from one brother to the other. “Jesus, your girlfriend died less than a year ago, and you’re fucking your slut of a brother? You think that’s nice?”

Sam goes to move, a snarl ripping his face apart, but Dean’s hand, hard on his shoulder, stops him.

Dean just grins. Still looking at Sam, keeping his body loose and easy, his face showing nothing at all apart from slightly feral amusement. “Well, Dad, pussy’s one thing, but Sam? You know how I like it? How I love the ladies and fucking and all the good shit? Well, Sam’s something else.” His grin widens as he watches Sam’s face shift from angry to disbelieving and finally to wry amusement. 

“You’re brothers!”

“Yeah.” Dean closes his eyes. Then, without really thinking about it, he’s in his father’s face, a finger shoved in the broad chest, all the anger simply _there_ , bubbling in his chest, like lava, so hot it’s scalding, from the inside out. “And don’t _ever_ look down on us. You understand? You fucked me when I was nothing but a kid. You used me to bury your own loneliness and then you used me a little more, just to survive. I get it, really I do, that you made tough choices. But I’m a long way from forgiveness. And don’t you ever look at Sam like that. Ever. Or we really and truly will never see you again. This is one big motherfucking world, and even with all the shit you’ve landed on us, there are places we can go.” He pokes harder, feels the big body rock back. “So, be careful, Daddy. Or I won’t get your ass out of the pile of steaming horseshit you’re standing in.”

John holds still. He’s taller than Dean, big and strong – probably stronger even than Sam. But he’s caught in the force of Dean’s anger, and Dean, maybe for the first time in his life, watches his father look away. In a glance, like something caught at the corner of his eye, he sees the shame in his father’s eyes, the shame that maybe, perhaps, has always been buried away under the arrogance and the obsession.

Dean catches his breath. Steps away.

“You’d better go. Give us until noon, then come back for me.”

John nods. He goes to the door, head lowered like a bull outrun in the ring. As the door opens under his hand, he nods once, and looks back to where Sam and Dean stand, close, together. There’s neither acceptance nor understanding in his face, but nor is there derision, or loathing. 

“An hour. I’ll be back.” He pulls the door open and starts to walk through, pausing halfway, to turn and looks back one last time. “And thanks. For everything.”

“Hey, no problem…” Overwhelmed by the improbability of his father’s words, Dean waves a hand. “One last thing? This guy, who is it?”

There’s a twist to John’s mouth as he straightens, taking in a lungful of the morning air. “Someone you know, David Howe. He’s a priest in the next parish.” With that he’s gone, the door pulled closed behind him, and Dean’s left alone, listening hollow-boned to the sound of Sam cursing.

Fin


End file.
